


Dichotomy

by sinestrated



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinestrated/pseuds/sinestrated
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock and Jim react to crisis in different ways: one draws closer and the other draws away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dichotomy

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how much I wanted to title this fic "Divergent".
> 
> The piece is a little rushed and Jim's section may end a bit abruptly. I apologize for that. This is really more of a character study than anything else.

Three days since Jim finally whined his way out of sickbay, and Spock has yet to let him out of his sight. He follows Jim everywhere, the steady weight of his gaze palpable through meals in the mess, workouts at the gym, and late-night poker games with Scotty, Sulu, and Chekov in the rec room. Jim should probably talk to Spock about it. Chekov’s poker face goes to shit whenever the Vulcan’s around, and yeah, Jim’s aware he got mauled by an alien monster and ended up flatlining twice on Bones’s operating table, but really, does he actually need a 24/7 babysitter? And aren’t Vulcans supposed to be all distant and shit?

Then he remembers Spock’s face when he’d first woken up in sickbay, the way his lover’s fingers shook as they wrapped around his own, brown eyes cracked and fragile, waiting on Jim to put him back together. And he keeps his mouth shut.

At least alpha shift has been uneventful. They’re doing some basic star-mapping, sitting on their hands while waiting for the latest orders from Command. For once his life, Jim’s not complaining. His body still feels too fragile and tender, not quite used to the regrown tendons and muscles. It’s like he’s living in someone else’s skin, and all he really wants to do right now is hand the bridge over to his beta shift relief, go back to his quarters, and curl up in bed with Spock until he feels like himself again.

From her station over his shoulder, Uhura hums and says, “Sir. Incoming transmission from Admiral Meers.”

And so much for that hope. Jim sighs and rises from the chair, controlling the wince as a symphony of aches and pains sings out from his freshly-regenerated body. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, taking a moment to stretch his back. “I’ll take it in my ready room.”

He’s two steps out when the voice rings out: sudden, panicked. “Captain!”

Jim pauses. The bridge falls quiet. Very slowly, he turns around and follows everyone else’s gazes to Spock, who stands in front of the Science station, his chair slowly rotating behind him. Jim’s heart constricts when he sees the look on his First Officer’s face, sharp features etched in anxiety and alarm.

From the helm station, Sulu clears his throat. “Uh…you all right, Commander?”

Spock stiffens. The slightest hint of green flushes his cheeks and he cuts his eyes away. “I…”

His voice trembles, cracks on that single syllable, and something inside Jim just breaks. He straightens up and thinks his voice mostly remains steady as he says, “Actually, Mr. Spock, why don’t you come with me. I’ll want your opinion too.”

The footsteps that sound out behind him as he turns and heads into his ready room are immediate, almost desperate. Jim shuts the door, engages the privacy lock, and turns to Spock. “Well?”

The Vulcan stands just inside the door, watching him with bright eyes. His shoulders are tense, as if Spock isn’t sure what to do next. His gaze is a strange mixture of wariness, worry, and hope. Jim sighs and opens his arms. “For Christ’s sake, Spock, come _here_.”

Spock dives for him. The momentum bowls Jim backward into the wall—and _ow_ , his back—but he can’t bring himself to say anything about it when Spock makes a low, keening noise and crushes Jim to him, hands pushing beneath his shirt as his lover does his level best to crawl under his skin. Jim huffs out a breath, bringing one hand up to stroke through Spock’s hair. “Spock,” he whispers, as the Vulcan trembles, breaths quick and panicked over the bare skin of Jim’s neck. “It’s okay, Spock. I’m here. I’m alive.”

He feels more than sees Spock swallow, grip tightening so that Jim actually finds it a little hard to breathe. “I apologize,” his lover whispers, muffled into his neck. “My controls…”

“I know.” Jim sighs, nosing into soft black hair. “God. Spock.”

“ _Jim_ ,” Spock answers, and he sounds so scared, so vulnerable. “I lost you once already. Please, do not ever leave me. I beg of you, _please_.”

And it’s nonsensical, impossible, but Jim just nods. “Yeah, Spock,” he murmurs, and pulls his lover closer. “Anything.”

 

* * *

 

Spock spends forty-eight hours in sickbay. Jim does not visit once.

He heads for the captain’s quarters the instant he is cleared. His ribs ache as he lifts his hand to request entry. One inch downward, M’Benga had informed him, and the bullet fired by that crazed diplomat would have pierced his heart.

Ten seconds pass before the door slides open. The room is almost entirely dark: quiet, tense, and completely unlike its normally bright and lively occupant. Spock blinks and takes a small step forward. “Jim?”

A flicker of movement draws his gaze to the couch where Jim sits, hands folded in his lap. Spock steps forward; Jim’s gaze flicks briefly up to him and he experiences a moment of strange, lurching disorientation: there is something in Jim’s eyes, something alien, unfamiliar…

And then, with a jolt, it hits him. Jim’s eyes are distant, guarded. For the first time since meeting the younger man, Spock cannot _read_ him.

The realization is strange, alarmingly so, such that Spock barely registers it when Jim leans slightly away on the couch and slides his gaze to the floor. “Commander,” he mumbles.

And that single word only sets off more alarm bells in Spock’s head. Jim _never_ calls him by his title, not since they started this explosive, terrifying, beautiful thing between them, and Spock finds all of a sudden that he is afraid. “Jim, what is wrong?” he asks, and does not miss the other man’s tiny flinch. Something painful twists in his gut when he sees the shadows beneath his mate’s eyes, the tense lines of stress etched into Jim’s handsome features like score marks on rock. “Jim—”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

The words tumble out of Jim’s mouth like unruly children. Spock stares. He could not have heard correctly. “I…beg your pardon?”

Jim flicks his gaze up to Spock for half a second before dropping it back to the floor. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “This…thing we’re doing. I’m ending it, Spock.”

And, just like that, Spock’s entire world tumbles off its axis. It suddenly becomes very hard to breathe. Jim wants to terminate their relationship? But how—how can that be—

“ _Why?_ ”

The sharpness of his voice surprises them both. Jim’s head snaps up of its own accord, and what Spock sees makes cold settle in his heart like winter frost: Jim looks devastated, _tortured_ , like his entire world is crumbling around him. His voice shakes as he answers, “Because it’s for the best.”

Spock stares. Silence stretches in the room, drawing cold whispering fingers over his skin like an ill-forgotten ghost. He does not understand. Is Jim dissatisfied with their relationship? Has Spock done something wrong? What could he have—

But then Jim shifts, looking away and swiping an angry thumb over the square set of his jaw, and Spock blinks because he knows that movement. He has seen it many times: over shared meals at fancy diplomatic meetings, during tense negotiations with enemy armadas, across the table with playing cards and poker chips scattered haphazardly like tumbleweed in a desert.

Jim is bluffing.

And, with the finality of something deep inside him shifting over two notches and settling into place, Spock knows what he has to do.

He tilts his head and straightens his shoulders. “Explain.”

Jim sighs and looks away. His hands tremble. “You don’t know what happened,” he murmurs. “I screwed up. The Kollonic fleet intercepted us shortly after we broke atmosphere and everyone looked to me to give the orders, but I couldn’t. All I could think about was you, bleeding out on Bones’s table.” He swallows. “Sulu had to take over, because I couldn’t. I just. I screwed _up_ , Spock. I almost got everyone on this ship killed.”

He looks up then. His blue eyes shine. “I’m emotionally compromised,” he whispers. “Given that, breaking up is only logical.”

And he looks all of a sudden so young, so utterly _lost_. Steel cords squeeze Spock’s heart, even as he forces his face into its usual calm mask and answers, “You are correct. Terminating our relationship would be the logical choice, in this instance.”

He does not miss Jim’s flinch. “Spock—”

“However, I am disinclined to subscribe to logic under these circumstances.”

That gets him a startle and a wide, blue-eyed stare. Spock takes two steps forward and drops to his knees, encircling Jim’s hands within his own. “We each come from two completely different backgrounds, with two different philosophies and sets of worldviews,” he says. “There are very few things on which we truly agree, and the betting pool Mr. Scott has set up is currently twenty-to-one odds that I will eventually strangle you on the bridge again. We are, as humans call it, complete polar opposites.”

Jim laughs at that, sad, humorless. His hands twitch, as if he wants to draw back out of Spock’s reach. “If this is supposed to make me feel better—”

“And yet,” Spock interrupts, “I fell in love with you anyway.”

Jim blinks, and Spock takes a breath. “Despite my heritage, despite the mismatch between our respective upbringings and personalities, you drew me to you, Jim, like no one else ever has. Our joining was completely illogical, yet the relationship that resulted has been the most fulfilling and gratifying connection I have ever experienced.” He tilts his head and allows a small smile to curve his lips. “Forgive me, then, if I am reluctant to stray from a path that has already yielded me such remarkable returns.”

Jim does not reply immediately. For a moment longer, they simply sit there, watching each other. Never straying from his lover’s eyes, Spock slowly counts the seconds, feeling the buzz of Jim’s golden, soothing presence through their contact.

At thirty-eight, Jim sighs. His shoulders relax, and very slowly, his lips curl up into a smile, the most beautiful thing Spock has ever beheld. He leans forward for a kiss then, a brief brush over Spock’s lips, and when he speaks there is nothing but affection in his tone. “Should’ve known better than to argue with you,” he whispers. “Damn Vulcan.”

“Half,” Spock reminds him, and Jim laughs, genuine this time, and draws Spock closer.

“Yeah,” he answers, breath warm over Spock’s skin. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Regarding translations:** All my works, including this one, can be translated without first asking my express permission. I ask only that you credit me as the original author and provide a link back to the original work. For anything other than translations, please ask first. Thanks.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Дихотомия (Dichotomy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301361) by [Vasilika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vasilika/pseuds/Vasilika)




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